


002

by tepidspongebath



Series: Numbered Porn [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-28
Updated: 2012-04-28
Packaged: 2017-11-12 05:06:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/487037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tepidspongebath/pseuds/tepidspongebath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wherein John and Sherlock proposition two girls at a bar, and take them home for some rather unconventional fun. Pancakes are promised, and delivered. Eventually.</p>
            </blockquote>





	002

**Author's Note:**

>  De-anoning from the kink meme, where I wrote this for a fill for this prompt: " _John and Sherlock go to a bar, chat up two nice girls, take them home and fuck them. Side by side, on the same bed. Because they can."_

  
"And if you let me take you home, I'll make pancakes in the morning. The best damn pancakes you ever had.  _Ever_." As pick-up lines went, it wasn't brilliant. John Watson knew that, and he knew it, even through the haze of two...three... _six_  beers, and even as he thought that his getting a good shag tonight was going to be drastically decreased by his continuing to talk about a post-coital breakfast, he found his mouth opening, apparently entirely of its own accord to say, "With syrup. Goddamn blueberry syrup, like...like on that cooking show."  


  
The woman setting next to him at the bar, she laughed prettily, pushing her hair out of her face - her very pretty face. "I think I've seen that one," she said. "She made those for little kiddies."  
  
"Well, yeah, she did, didn't she." John morosely began to count the evening as a loss, and contemplated pint number seven. "I was exaggerating. About the syrup. Can't do that, no blueberries. My flatmate, though, he keeps honey."  
  
 _Breakfast and a male flatmate._  Well done,  _John_.  
  
She laughed again, and her hair fell back to curl around her face in dark ringlets, and she was pretty, wasn't she, a pity he was making such an ass of himself...  
  
"I like pancakes," she said.   
  
"Sorry, what?"  
  
The girl bit her lip - her plump, lush, lower lip, dear God, John wanted to bite it too - and looked at him through her lowered eyelashes. "I like pancakes."  
  
"Oh." John felt a smile break across his face. "That's nice."  
  
"Very. Capital, John, can we leave now?"   
  
"Sherlock!" John spun in his seat to glare at his flatmate. He had ghosted up behind them, already wearing his coat, tying his scarf around his neck, and with a girl - a redhead, and curvy - hovering hopefully behind him.  
  
"This your flatmate then?" said the woman John was talking to.  
  
"You could have given me more time!" scolded John.  
  
"Immaterial. She's coming with us. Aren't you?"   
  
The girl...Melanie, no Melissa...looked from one man to the other, the question clear in her face.  
  
"Look," said John, "Mel-- I'm sorry. If this lout had let me alone for a bit longer, I'd have explained about, well. You don't have to you know. But," he added, "if you do, there will be pancakes. I promise."  
  
Sherlock bounced on his heels impatiently. "I said she's coming, didn't I?" He shot John a look, effectively making the statement a double entrede. "Come  _on_ , John."  
  
"I'm intrigued," said the girl simply as she got off her seat. "So you're name's John, is it? You never did get around to saying." She smiled at him, a shy-but-reckless-caution-to-the-winds smile. "I hope you meant it about the pancakes."

*

He kissed her first, in the taxi, putting a hand under her chin to tilt it up when she gave him another of those looks from beneath her lashes. She had hesitated a little, painfully aware, he was sure, of Sherlock fiercely snogging, groping, squeezing the other girl next to them, but her lips parted and her mouth opened and she gave a little gasp, a little shudder as John's tongue licked into her mouth.   
  
It was none too soon when the cab pulled up at 221B Baker Street.  
  
"This isn't going to be one of those things with hidden cameras, is it?" asked Sherlock's - oh, how  _objectifying_! thought John, but he didn't know her name, didn't know how else to think of her - girl.  
  
"Ladies," said Sherlock, unlocking the front door, "tonight is for our pleasure only, for tonight only, with no mementos to be kept except the soiled sheets. In short, there is no camera, there are  _no_  fucking  _cameras_."  
  
The man did get voluble when he was drunk. Almost ridiculously so.  
  
"Right," said the redhead. "Just making sure." She turned to...Melisande? Margarette?...and held out a hand. "Since we're in this together. I'm Grace."  
  
The other girl shook her hand. "Mary. Mary Morstan. Er, nice to meet you, I think."  
  
John followed the two of them into the house. They were whispering together, as women invariably seemed to do when thrown together. He caught snatches of their conversation as they went up the stairs.  
  
"A tall drink of water. A bloody gorgeous tall drink of water with a fucking beautiful growl," said Grace, not really bothering to keep her voice down. "Why are you here?"  
  
Mary's giggle was nervous. "Would you believe me if I said pancakes?"  
  
John shook his head. He shouldn't mind, really, he had thought he wasn't getting any tonight, but 'pancakes' versus being bloody gorgeous had to be a bit of a damper on anyone's ego. He hesitated a little on the stairs, wondering if this was really a good idea. He wasn't even sure how it had come about, actually, except as a side effect of living with Sherlock Holmes.  
  
There was a tittering from upstairs that told him that the girls had reached the sitting room, and that Sherlock was probably partway out of his clothes already.  
  
"John." The tone was imperious, impatient, and it sent a jolt running down the doctor's spine and into his, well, yes, his groin, because pitched just right Sherlock's voice could do that to him sometimes.  
  
"All right, all right, just a minute!" He took the steps two at a time, nearly stumbling at the top stair. The doors were open, sweet Jesus, Sherlock hadn't even had the decency to shut them, and the consulting detective was standing in plain view of the doorway, stripped to the waist and running his hands under Grace's blouse. Also in plain view was the bulge at the front of his pants.   
  
"You're neglecting your guest, John." Sherlock spared a glance for his flatmate as he gave Grace's left breast a squeeze. "That's rude."  
  
And he proceeded to kiss her, open-mouthed, and tongue-down-the-throat. It was decidedly, definitely, undoubtedly erotic and dirty and John felt the front of his jeans begin to tighten.  
  
"If you won't pay any attention to her," said Sherlock, barely pulling away from Grace's mouth, "there'll be more for me. You'd be welcome to watch of course." And he tugged Grace's blouse - a strappy, peacock blue affair that had hung and hugged her to the best advantage - over her head. She was wearing one of those little strapless bustier things underneath by way of underwear, and she undulated, insinuated herself into Sherlock's space, pressing a thigh between his legs.  
  
John looked at Mary who was standing next to the sofa, looking a little deer-in-the-headlights. "If this makes you uncomfortable," he said, "you're welcome to leave. Really, you are."  
  
"Sweet of you," she said. "Like how you kept trying to remember my name even if I hadn't told you yet." She smiled at him. "I'm quite up for a little anything. Fun."  She shrugged.   "Kinkiness."

Mary walked up to him, shucking her coat as she went. Underneath she was wearing a smart little blouse that said  _work_  and underneath that was a powder blue bra, cotton, which also said  _work_. The breath hitched in her throat - a small sound compared to the groans that were coming out of Sherlock's mouth (Grace had, at this point, reached between his legs and  _squeezed_ ) - as John pushed her blouse off of her shoulders and onto the floor.   
  
"You have," said John, bending a little to give her a kiss on the mouth, "very nice breasts."  
  
"Thank you," she said, tugging at the hem of John's jumper.  
  
"Nothing to be shy about."  
  
"Right."  
  
"Which is why you shouldn't mind at all if, in full view of God and the rest of the world, I do this." He reached behind her, undid the clasps of her bra, pulled off the offending garment, and lowered his head to kiss, suckle, nip, tease one nipple while his hand cupped and fondled the other breast. John felt her stiffen, and he wondered if he might have done the wrong thing - and next to them, somehow closer than he thought they were, Sherlock was on his knees, hiking up Grace's skirt with the hand that wasn't already thrust up between her legs - but a flush began to spread on Mary's cheeks, on her neck, and on her chest, and she started to make other sounds, small ones, little hiccups of pleasure. John pulled away, just to make sure.  
  
"You don't mind, do you?" he asked.  
  
"I mind," answered Mary, and her chest heaved beneath John's hand with her deep breaths, "that you're still wearing all of your clothes. I  _mind_ ," she said, closing a hand around John's wrist, pressing his hand closer to her, "that you stopped."  
  
"Oh. All right." John pulled his jumper off, tossed it aside. It hit Sherlock, who made an angry noise, but couldn't say anything more articulate as he had his tongue up the unmentionables of Grace's anatomy.  
  
"No fair!" squealed Mary. "You've got a shirt on underneath!" Her protests were lost however, when John resumed his attentions. She moaned, low and needy, as John bit her nipple and tugged with his teeth, fisting her hands in his shirt. He could have sworn he heard the material tear. John spared a glance for Sherlock then, and for Grace, whose thongs were down around one ankle. His flatmate's face was still buried in her groin, and she had her hands in his hair, making the most incredible  _sounds_  at the back of her throat. Mary, making the most of his distraction, practically yanked his undershirt off, and pressed herself against him, planting kisses along his neck and shoulder.  
  
"You were hurt," she said, and her lips and tongue traced the roughness of the scar on his shoulder.  
  
"Afghanistan." He tried to say it dismissively, though it was hard to say anything dismissively with a beautiful - yes, she was - topless woman tonguing your scar. John put his hands on her waist - a comfortable waist, not too skinny - and started to push the waistband of her trousers down.  
  
"You first," she said, at the same time that Grace, screaming, gasping, orgasmed, her fingers twisting in Sherlock's curls. John watched as his flatmate deftly tongued her through it, until her cries turned into quieter, less violent noises. Mary was undoing his fly by then, and pushing his jeans down. Sherlock pulled away from Grace, looked up at John and Mary, a slow, wicked smile curving his -  _unwiped!_  noticed John - mouth.  
  
"Liked the show?" he said, wiping Grace's juices off with the back of his hand.   
  
"Yes, actually," Mary answered. John was glad she did, he didn't think he could have managed anything intelligible. "Very much. Though I was hoping" -and this was addressed pointedly to John - "you'd go deeper." She pulled John's cotton y-fronts down. "I rather think you can."   
  
  
At this point, Grace had her arms around Sherlock's neck, as if for support, almost, the light warm caramel color of her skin vivid against the consulting detective's pale complexion. Sherlock pulled her closer, kissed her deeply. She was still wearing her bustier, and John could see how Sherlock's long fingers were working at the fastenings.

  
"I want you to fuck me," she said, quite audibly. "I want you to fuck me, long, and hard, and properly on a real bed. As many times as you can."  
  
"You heard the lady, John," said Sherlock, and he scooped Grace up - she shrieked in pretend horror - and proceeded to carry her to his bedroom.  
  
"That leaves us then," said Mary, planting a kiss on the side of John's face, and ever so gently running a finger down his erection. He kissed her back, hungrily, and he pressed the heel of his palm between her legs, gratified as she rocked into him.  
  
"Are you two coming or not?" came Sherlock's voice from further inside the flat.  
  
"Oh, yes, we are," mumbled John, digging in with his palm, making Mary gasp.  
  
"You know what I mean," snarled Sherlock.  
  
"What  _does_  he mean?" Mary's eyes were wide, dilated, and she licked her lips. In anticipation? John could only guess. He kissed her, gently this time.   
  
"I hope you don't mind."  
  
"I've said that I don't."  
  
"I mean I hope you don't mind going in there - to Sherlock's bedroom - and being fucked on the same bed as another woman. At the same time. Um." John licked his own lips, out of nervous habit. "That didn't come out very nicely. Sorry. But that's the general idea."  
  
"Oh."  
  
"If you don't want to--"  
  
"You keep saying that," said Mary. "I think I want to. I wasn't expecting it, certainly, but" -and she flashed him a wicked grin- "I wouldn't want to leave you hanging."  
  
"Right. Nice of you. Thanks. Shall we? Don't look too closely at the kitchen, mind you, that's all Sherlock's fault."  
  
In the room, Sherlock was already naked. He was standing, practically looming, over the bed, which had Grace sprawled in it. She had kicked off her shoes, and worked off her skirt, and was wearing only the little bustier and her make-up. John saw the way Sherlock was looking at her, predatory and measuring all at once, and he felt that spine tingle again. That might have been why he was going along with this really, the deep commanding rumble of Sherlock's voice, and the stare that stripped you to the bone.  
  
"Well," he said clearing his throat, "after you, sweetheart."  
  
Mary went to sit on the edge of the bed. She primly - odd adjective for a woman naked from the waist up, but it was what fit - toed off her shoes, peeled off her stockings, and wriggled enticingly out of her pants. Her blue cotton panties matched her bra.   
  
Grace, tired of waiting, John supposed, sat up suddenly, seized Sherlock by his forearms, and pulled him onto the bed. It was an ungainly movement, and he fell heavily on top of her, and slid off, settling between the two women, the very picture of debauched abandon. He ran a hand down Grace's thigh, twisted to give a surprised Mary a kiss on the mouth that turned, sloppily, into a lick down the cheek.  
  
"Well?" he said to John.  
  
"Bastard."  
  
"Mmmm." It was a sound of assent, broadly speaking, made into Mary's mouth, while Grace reached around him and grabbed his shaft. John could see Sherlock's ass tighten as he thrust into her hand. He released Mary's mouth, licked his lips - full, perfectly-shaped, and flushed bruised from all the places they had been - and said John's name. Looking like that, and with that  _voice_.

John hesitated - was this really and in fact actually happening? - and as he delayed, Sherlock straddled Mary - Grace looked quite affronted - and lay his body against hers, kissing her lips, her face, her neck. One of his hands went to her breast - the one John had been suckling - and kneaded, squeezed it.

  
"Oy." John wasn't sure how he approached the bed, but he was there, and he gave Sherlock a rough shove on the shoulder. "She's mine. Er, that is, if she doesn't mind. You don't, do you? Mary?"  
  
"No, I don't, of course not," she said, giving Sherlock a little push herself.  
  
Sherlock rolled off of her - not before giving her breast one good final squeeze - and turned a predatory smile first on John, then on Grace. He didn't even pretend to be apologetic. "Thought that would get you going," he said to John. "Aaah!" And that was to Grace, as she ran her fingernails down his sides, red lines blossoming across his ribcage.  
  
John got onto the bed, kissed Mary, biting her lush lower lip a little harder than he normally would have -  _revenge_  he thought, though on who he didn't know - and slid down, down, lapped at her navel - she squirmed under him, when he did this, so he did it again - and trailed kisses from there to the dark brush of her pubic hair. He pushed her legs apart, and teased her, first with his fingers, circling them on the inside of her thighs, spiraling ever closer, and then with his mouth, tonguing her clit and her entrance. Mary started to groan, to shout, to clutch at the bedsheets, at John, to cant her hips forward into his touch. He finally slicked a finger with his spit, and, watching her face, thrust it into her.  
  
The sounds she made were echoed by Grace, next to them. Sherlock was doing much the same thing, though with two fingers, thrusting them in and out of her as he held her down. John pulled out of Mary, put two fingers in his mouth, licked around them, and plunged them back inside her. He made scissoring motions with them, as far in as he could reach inside the tight, wet, warmth of her cleft, and he felt her clench around him, heard her soft cries of pleasure.  
  
Sherlock on the other hand, had three fingers in Grace now (why was John even paying them any attention, when he had his hand up a very pretty girl?) and, as John watched, pushed in a fourth. Grace groaned, writhed in helpless ecstasy as Sherlock pulled out, and then, arranging his fingers and thumb into a sort of beaked shape, pushed his entire hand into her.  
  
She screamed then, and John pressed his fingers much harder than he'd meant to into Mary, and she yelped. She looked up, breathing hard, and first she saw John, and then she saw where John was looking, Sherlock up to his wrist in Grace's cleft, fisting her deftly as she moaned and shouted her way to coming a second time.   
  
"Oh," said Mary, as Sherlock pulled his hand out, and pulled Grace in for a kiss. "John, be a dear, will you, and don't stop."  
  
"Right," said John. " _Right_." And he put his head down again, lapped and sucked at her clit while he worked his fingers inside her.  
  
"That's good," said Mary. "Oh yes. Very good. There.  _Oh_. Right  _there_. Oh yes. Oh God. Oh, oh  _God_."  
  
"You like that," said John, humming against her, clit, taking it in his teeth. His answer was a shudder, forceful, needy thrusts against his mouth, his touch, and a general increase in the liquids in the area, accompanied by the loudest cry he had heard from her that night.

He kissed her clit, gently as her breath slowed again, and she settled back onto the bed.   
  
"I want you this time," she breathed. "Your turn, John."  
  
Next to her, Grace raked sharp fingernails on Sherlock's back, and he gave a little "ah!" at the sudden pain. "And you," she hissed at him. She gave Mary a wink, friendly, conspiratorial, and maybe just a little bit competitive. She gave Sherlock's cock a decidedly ungentle tug. "Put  _this_  to good use."  
  
"I could put your mouth to good use, you know," grunted Sherlock.   
  
"No way to talk to a lady, Sherlock, said John, who had stood and was fishing a condom out of his wallet (he had, in spite of the fervor of lust, remembered to take it out of his jeans and into the bedroom).   
  
"Even one who was asking me to fuck her good and hard and repeatedly?"  
  
"I think so."  
  
"You're a sweetheart," said Grace, and she watched John put the condom on, completely unabashed  
  
"Thanks."  _This should be awkward_ , thought John, as though realizing it for the first time, as Sherlock snaked an arm under the pillows to pull out a condom of his own. "Um, ready?" he asked Mary.  
  
" _Yes_." She put a hand on him, guided him to her moist cleft, and stroking the side of his leg, spreading her legs wider apart, encouraged him to push in. He did, tentatively at fist - he had hurt other girls by going in too fast - and she sighed as the head of his cock slipped slickly inside her, and she groaned through gritted teeth as his shaft pushed in, and she opened her mouth and  _moaned_  when he went even farther.  
  
"Deeper, you said," he murmured against the flushed skin of her neck. He kissed her, and she returned the kiss greedily, sucking on his tongue when he pushed it in her mouth, clasping him closer and closer to her.   
  
John began to thrust then, gently at first, pulling out then pushing in, ending with a grinding motion deep, deep inside the warmth of her. Beside him, he was aware of a similar rhythm: Sherlock, pounding into her, and the bed dipped as they rolled together and into the other couple, and as John began to go faster, his thrusts quicker and more urgent, he could feel the slick and friction of Sherlock's skin against his, the warmth and tightness of Mary underneath and around him.   
  
His was starting to pant for breath, he was close, oh yes he was, Mary was keening beneath him and the motion of her hips matched his exquisitely, and there was a hand on the side of his face, turning his head, pulling him backward and up, and there, in that tangle of bodies and limbs, Sherlock kissed him as he rode Grace into the sheets, as Mary shrieked beneath John and locked her legs around his waist as she came. He continued to kiss John, deep and fierce and  _wild_ , and it was too much, it was too much, all the sensations, Sherlock's hard, hot mouth, his tongue, his teeth, and Mary, the clenching and  _heat_  around his cock, and Sherlock kissing him while Grace sucked at the long fingers of the hand that wasn't holding John into the kiss, while Sherlock drove  _his_  cock into the other woman with vicious urgency while he moaned with that  _voice_ into John's open mouth...   
  
John came, noisily, messily, and beside him, clutching his hand, Sherlock followed, his groans driving John, each shooting down the doctor's spine with a wicked, searing, lustful heat.   
  
When it was over, John pulled out of Mary, and kissed her, soft, on the cheek.  
  
"You didn't mind that, did you?"  
  
She laughed, more of a giggle, really. "The look on your sweet face," she said, smiling in post-coital satisfaction. "I liked that. I did."  
  
"Do it again," said Grace, drawing a finger across one of Sherlock's cheekbones. "I think you want to."  
  
"What?"  
  
" _This_ , Sherlock." And John turned, grabbed his flatmate, seized his mouth with his own, and proceeded, to put it vilely, to fuck Sherlock's mouth with his tongue. It went on for much longer than he thought Sherlock would let it, and when they finally came up for air, Sherlock looked at him, with those piercing blue-grey-green eyes of his, quite clearly issuing a challenge.   
  
"Round two?" he said.  
  
John laughed, reaching behind him to put his hand on Mary's waist. "I hope I last the night."

*

The next morning, John woke Mary with a kiss.   
  
"Morning," he said. "Sorry, we've got to dash. There's been a mur-- well, Sherlock's been called to work, and I go along with him. You can let yourself out, Mrs. Hudson - our landlady will lock up after you. And Grace. She's in the shower. And, here, I promised you pancakes, didn't I?"  
  
He set a tray down on the bed beside her before giving her one last kiss.

  


"Thanks," he said. "I, er, hope you had, well, fun. A good time. Call me." And he ran out to join his flatmate.  
  


  



End file.
